The Cale Agenda
by Victoriam Speramus
Summary: When everybody else left, she stayed. Now, 10 years later, X5-452 is Manticore's finest in the most important mission of her life. AU. ABANDONED! See profile for more info.
1. I

_I really hope to get back into writing this year, so lately I've been re-reading the little progress I had on all of my stories, figuring out a way to bring them back from the land of dead stories, which means most of them will be reposted._

_Starting with this one._

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><p><strong>The Cale Agenda<strong>

**I**

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><p>It seemed there was no sound other than that of the rain, falling softly on the roof above him, and that was such an overwhelming feeling. Carrying out a mission in circumstances like that always made him believe that the world consisted in only him and his target, a miserable human being who would, inevitably, die.<p>

There was no joy on working in some sort of autopilot mode, but it was much better to do the things for which he had been created without much of a second thought, rather than let his mind wonder about such atrocities. That was the reason why, ever since the Berrisford incident, 494 had insisted himself to ignore any kind of external stimuli. It had been a decisive moment, the time when his light bulb went on and started doing the thing Manticore hated the most: to question authority. Maybe that wouldn't have been the big problem it turned out to, if weren't because 494 did actually started living: he devoured every single detail of the world with his eyes, taking in the magnificence that lay behind the disaster, he replied any received word with one born in his very core and, last but not least, he savored all of Rachel's kisses, that were rightfully his and what he wanted the most. He had known what it was like to live outside the box and, in Manticore's conspicuous style, remembered there were things he was not made for.

Rachel Berrisford died, and so Simon Lehane did. However, even after the long weeks in Psy-Ops, there was still that seed within him, one that eventually grew in the remorse that filled his mind every time he pulled the trigger. Watching Rafael Guevara, though, caused more sorrow than expected, since the man did not have many hopes to live much longer anyway. He was already dying.

The hand that held the gun rested on his hip, fearful, still unable to shoot, the sound of galloping rain louder in his ears. He could do this... and he had to if he wanted to be cleared of any sequel the Berrisford assignment could have provoked on him.

The man's low chuckle brought him back from his reverie, frowning as he spoke, "you were always so forgetful. What did you return for, honey?" asked the man gently, turning his aching body toward him, a faint smile on his lips that vanished as quickly as it showed up when their eyes met.

He took it as a sign. How was it possible that the ill doctor had noticed his presence, he did not know, but there was no other choice but to kill, and the animal that lived inherently within him raised his arm and pulled the trigger. The bullet penetrated the depths of his skull and rain, now unleashed in all its intensity, drowned out any sound.

Except for the scream.

The distorted sound of her mouth was not high-pitched enough, but the front door was open, the soaked female figure standing in the doorway. Dark brown strands of hair were plastered all over her face as horrified grimace ruined what otherwise were full, certainly seductive lips, and he imagined a similar gesture on his own face. He could swear he'd seen her go less than five minutes ago, his own judgment pleading him, above all, not to risk the life of someone else, much less that of the doctor's daughter. _Not an__other daughter_.

In just a second, mere instinct drove both of their bodies. Her feet made a great effort to carry her out, to the safety that the wet street offered to her, but he was much faster. Soon he had crossed the short distance separating them, the door now violently closed, and it seemed that the world got smaller again, leaving just the two of them alone.

It was not a difficult task to hold the fragile and frightened woman with his arms, even if she was determined to shake and kick, fighting for a freedom that would never come. _Another daughter_, he thought, somewhat hurt and defeated, _another innocent girl_, but he was not sure he could let her go without exposing the whole operation behind them. And letting go also meant an awful lot of stuff he was certain did not want to deal with anymore.

"Please, calm down," he muttered to the desperate creature, not releasing the pressure in her mouth. He couldn't afford someone else to listen to this disaster of a mission, but then he committed the mistake that could have cost him everything. Sometime during their struggle, her wet curls abandoned her features and, as he looked down at her, he clearly saw the face of his most dedicated partner in crime.

Obviously, he knew that many of them were based on someone else. Hell, he was well aware that Rafael Guevara's daughter was, genetically, the original version of X5-452, X5-453 and perhaps another dozen soldiers of many kinds, but still found it horrifying to consider the course his actions would take. He had to kill her, there was no doubt about it, and such thing was like reliving the fateful explosion that ended with his sweet Rachel's life; on the other hand, her resemblance to his fellow soldiers made him feel like he was killing one of his own. Unstable as he was right then, there was only a single way he could proceed, suddenly forgetting about any disturbing consequence back in Manticore.

He let her go.

Shaking, Maxine Guevara stumbled across the hall until her feet reached the exit, both of her hands occupied in equally important tasks. One tried nervously to open the door, while the other buried itself in the depths of her jacket's right pocket. Eventually, the door gave up, but the girl never gave the last step she needed to run.

As a leaf blowing away, her body fell slowly, lifeless, bright red blood staining the whiteness elegance of the floor.

When he lifted up his gaze, 494 felt himself close to something he identified as hysteria. A soaked female figure stood in the doorway, but the déjà vu feeling faded as soon as he saw the face. There was none of the horror of just a minute earlier, but that gesture of annoyance that, he had come to believe, was often caused by him. 452 glared at him, hand on hip, the gun still smoking. "Do I always have to clean up your mess?"

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><p><strong>TBC<strong>

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><p><em>It really took me a while to find a proper way to start over again. Yeah, Max is holding a pistol, Alec is a bit unsteady and Logan is not even here, yet. I will not give the story that ambiguous touch that was slowly growing in the first version of TCA, since it has never been my intention to have MA of any kind in my works.<em>

_Well, I don't know what you think, but I'm actually proud of this one. There are still a few details to check before posting (and, then, posting more frequently) any more chapters, but this is what I have so far. However, I do really hope you enjoy it, and whether you do or not, if you read, I'd love to receive some feedback._


	2. II

II

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><p>"I don't know what you're talking about. I had everything under control," was 494's reply, who was slowly recovering from the shock. There was no doubt, then, that she was 452 and that much, at least, brought him some peace among the crisis.<p>

"It was a rhetorical question," she stated, placing the pistol back into its holster. And then, after quietly closing the door, she was all business, checking the bodies and their surroundings. It seemed surprising to him that she wasn't startled at all, considering that the woman was identical to her—rather, that _she_ was identical to the dead girl. It was, in a very disturbing way, fascinating, and he could not help but admire the determination and integrity that she had, qualities he longed to recover.

So absorbed he was in such thoughts, he did not realize the time she started speaking. "No wonder why Lydecker was so obsessed with the idea of leaving you a few more weeks in Psy Ops, 494," she observed when noticing he wasn't paying much attention.

He knew she was right. This mission had highlighted each and every one of his flaws, and more than proving his apparent recovery, it'd emphasized how mentally weak he was. "Sorry, I was thinking how much she resembles you," he said. It was not much of a lie, he considered, and then added one of his patented grins, "a distant cousin, 452? Maybe you could introduce me to her?"

She just rolled her eyes at him.

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><p>Pretending everything was alright was harder than she thought. Having killed her felt like a part of her life had died as well, cutting an invisible bond between her and just an ordinary person that she knew she wouldn't experience again, even when the two of them had never met before that fated afternoon. 452 owed Maxine Guevara more than she would ever admit. It wasn't just about the looks—it was because of Guevara that she had gone into the most important missions of her life, assuming her identity while the young girl had some unexpected vacations. It was because of Guevara that she had collected most of her experience as a Manticore operative. But, most importantly, it was because of her that she was still in Manticore, serving to the country that had created her, unlike the traitors that once upon a time were part of her unit.<p>

On the other hand, Maxine Guevara had owed her as much. It was the reason to create her to provide quite a unique health insurance for the girl, having a more than perfect guinea pig in case she presented any kind of decease. It was because of 452 that Maxine hadn't used glasses, that she'd had a form friendly metabolism, that any illness the Pulse brought hadn't affected her. In fact, 452 thought, she was as genetically engineered as an X3, maybe even an X4, and that only ended up affirming her belief they were more alike than anyone would think.

As her companionship spoke, 452 rolled her eyes, wisely choosing to overlook 494 words. "I was saying she tried to make a call. Luckily for us, signal is a major problem right now and it was finished before anybody picked it, but we can't just ignore it. We gotta blaze, pronto."

In such situations, procedure was quite simple. Getting rid of the bodies, of evidence, taking some of the victims' personal effects, resembling the situation to a typical flight. Between these two, however, it was kind of a private joke, how they could just leave Manticore behind them and start a successful career in the field of house cleaning. As she turned her back at him, a wide smile spread across her face, quickly vanishing as she focused on the rather unpleasant activity of disposing Maxine's body in a garbage bag.

Outside, it was still raining, and she wanted to believe it meant some sort of advantage against the cops_—_that, if they ever came around. With not much effort, she carried the plastic bag all the way down the girl's car, an '01 Beetle that was way too feminine to her liking. Nonetheless, as soon as the car trunk was closed by her, a voice cracked in her left ear. No matter how much interference was around her due climatic conditions, she recognized X5-719's husky tone."_Sector Polic—ur location. Retire ASA—_"

Her grunt was unheard. She should have known better_—_there were time like this when a supposed facile task would just get complicated in the way. It wasn't like the Police would be there any time soon_—_it was Seattle PD, for God's sake, but there wouldn't be enough time to look for the information Rafael Guevara was attempting to sell. Most importantly, it meant she had to take her own decisions, which would be, whichever the result was, highly questioned at their return to the base.

Less than five minutes later, they both fled the scene, Guevara's death body was still curled into the crimson carpet of his living room. She hadn't liked it, but there wasn't much of a choice_—_they would have to rely on the Police, to close the case as an ordinary armed robbery. Whoever that had tried to buy Manticore's data, well, they were likely to see further and understand what had happened to the doctor. The message would be delivered, anyway.

Nobody could mess with Manticore.

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><p><em>No Logan yet <em>:(

_It's a little complicated describing Max as a Manticore operative, so I apologize beforehand for any kind of incongruence between this one and the fabulous cynic of the series. I also wanted to show that she's not our default Manticore mindless soldier. It's going to take a while to pull her together, so I'm open to any suggestions about it._

_Milou, many thanks for your review. I hope you like this new chapter. And you, any other reader, are invited to share your opinion too. To improve this, I'd love to know what I'm doing right and what not._


	3. III

_Thank you for reading!_

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><p><strong>The Cale Agenda<strong>

**III**

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><p>Returning to the base didn't mean the end of the mission, and this brought her great levels of anxiety. Although she had always been known for operating in a flawless manner, providing more than satisfactory results, never before she had served as another soldier's handler. It was very rare to be sent alone to an assignment and, ever since she started going out in missions, 494 used to be the one behind her, giving her his support and advice; now, in this, her very first time being the <em>leader<em>, despite the relative success obtained, she had to face the alleged failure her partner caused when not fulfilling his task properly.

452 was surprised, however, at the ease in which the subject was dropped. She took care of defending 494 in her report, which seemed to have an effect because, undoubtedly, there was something else concerning her superiors.

Abandoned in the place where the mission details were being discussed, 452 stood still, her posture stiff like a mannequin, waiting for all people to come back. Apparently, no soldier, no matter how brilliant and talented it was, enjoyed the privilege of having its opinion heard while making important decisions, and even when she was not really interested in being part of it, 452 was way too intrigued to know why they had her waiting.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, colonels and strategists alike returned to the conference room. Lydecker, who always seemed to be their leader, sat directly in front of her. Despite the tremendous loyalty she had for Manticore, something within herself kept her from feeling the slightest appreciation for the man. He represented everything that had terrified her during her early years, the only reason that had forced her to even try to defect.

"At ease, X5-452," he pointed the only chair at her side of the long, white wooden table. "You can take a seat."

She complied, placing her hands on the table, trying, as usual, to demonstrate she was ready to do anything they'd indicate to her. "Maxine Guevara was calling someone at the time she was murdered," began, to her amazement, Agent Sandoval. "You found the cell phone in her pocket and ended the call before anyone could pick it up, which was not a very wise move. I understand you didn't want the situation to be out of control, but you could have informed X5-719; then, our best men could've tried to trace the number. "

_Then_, she guessed, _no one's been able to locate whoever my 'twin' was calling to_.

"Of course, once you finished the call, the task became rather impossible," he confirmed. "Just imagine, we tracked it down to an antique shop in Oaxaca, Mexico. Who could come from so far away to help the Guevaras? "

_Even if their neighbors had tried, they had no chance against us._

Sandoval studied her face before continuing his sermon, 452 noticed, amused, despite the seriousness that emanated from her own features. "We've waited for someone trying to communicate with Guevara. Also, it seems that you weren't too careful, as a gossipy neighbor saw you as you put the girl's body in the car. It was she the one who notified the police. Just our luck, she was an officer's aunt, so she wasn't ignored, and now we have the face of one of our best soldiers glued in every post of the city, charged with murder, and yet we still do not receive any news of the Guevaras' savior."

Silence fell abruptly into the room and, although 452 had loved to put Sandoval into his place, giving him a thousand and one reasons why he wouldn't have been able to do even half she did, she knew that she was not allowed to fill the lack of words. This, her experience said, would only enlarge the punishment that now was more than evident.

It was now Lydecker's turn, whose mood appeared to have waned as Sandoval spoke. "I'm afraid most of things Agent Sandoval has shared with us are true. However, our liaisons with the Seattle P.D. seem to think otherwise. There is a detective, not assigned to the case, which has been asking too many questions." She could see the obvious pleasure of the Colonel when contradicting the Agent. "Maybe it's just curiosity, nothing more than a coincidence, but you know we..."

"...do not believe in coincidences."

All the people turned to take a look at the figure that entered, belatedly, to the room. 452 stood up, immediately, bowing respectfully to the woman before her. The Director might have little in her position, and not so much kindness in her dealings, but she was the boss... and also hated Lydecker. Something kind of _the enemy of your enemy is your friend_ had to do with that.

There was not much that could be hidden from her and, evidently, Lydecker had thought he could get all the glory, trying to save for himself the news that someone, in fact, was trying to discover who was behind the murder of Rafael Guevara and the disappearance of the young Maxine. "I just received that report, Deck. Must have been lost in the mail."

"Maybe I forgot to send it," he replied through clenched teeth.

She ignored his reply, gesturing to the soldier to sit down once again, and so did the few ones who had offered their seats to her, which she rejected. Standing in her feet gave her a position of greater power, of superiority, which she enjoyed greatly."Someone is obviously concerned about Maxine Guevara. If it's the detective, Matt Sung, or is someone else, we don't know. What we are certain," she glanced at Lydecker, "is that this person should know more about what her father was doing, or knows who else can be involved, and the only way to find out is contacting him."

"And you, 452," Lydecker interrupted, wanting, in that struggle of power he had against the Director, to be the one who gave the final order, "you are the person who can do it."

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><p><em>To be continued...<em>

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><p><em>Logan is still not here, but will be very soon :)<em>

_I am still trying for all of this to make sense. I know the 452-Maxine thing is weird, but it'll be eventually explained… So far, all you need to know is that they are, physically, the same._


	4. IV

_Well, it kinda took a while and it's so short, as almost everything I write, but it's finally here. Went to Peru for this summer vacation and inspiration came to me, even if just for this tidbit. Not to mention that my lovely host provided me of the most awesome cookies ever, so I consider those came from_ _Rosabelmay. Many thanks to Milou, Jeanetteg and Meg too :) You keep me motivated to finish this, no matter what._

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><p><strong>The Cale Agenda<strong>

**IV**

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><p>It went against common sense to attend Guevara's funeral. But Logan had promised him to protect both him and his daughter, and now, with the man dead and the girl missing, he felt the least he could do at the time was to show his respect, if not his shame, in the cemetery that would be the doctor's final resting place.<p>

Seth stood behind him. He had insisted to join him, since he wanted to make sure it wasn't a trap to capture anyone else involved. "I just don't wanna wake up tomorrow and learn that my favorite employer is dead," the younger man told him. Seth's presence had made it easier to lie about his involvement with the doctor; Seth being _his brother_, and former Maxine's _boyfriend_ for a while, during which he had known and appreciated the man greatly...

But no one asked what they were doing there, nobody really cared, so there was no need to say something that wasn't truth. The news Rafael Guevara's death went unnoticed for many people. Few attended his funeral, most of them neighbors who had envisioned him during his life as a gentleman of good manners, and believed that they could not continue living next to his empty house if they did not say goodbye to him. Only one woman lost her sanity for a moment, ranting against the daughter, _that ungrateful bitch _that probably killed him to have all of his money, and then the image of Alina Herrero inevitably came to his mind.

Seth read his thoughts, pulling him away from the spot of the cemetery where Guevara's body would rot for eternity. "Even if it was her," said the young man, who seemed refined and attentive with that navy blue suit, "this time it wasn't your fault."

Like that could make things easier.

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><p>When they reached the penthouse, Seth threw his car keys at the desk, pounding the keyboard in the process. Logan undid his tie, allowing the strip of black cloth to hang ungracefully around his neck. During the trip home, he had considered taking the evening off, to relax for a moment, but the noise from the keys had caught his attention, and diverted his gaze to his office. He had much to do, and he was grateful his bodyguard-driver-messenger gave him some lame excuse to leave. It was most likely that Seth would spend all night drinking in that scandalous place he frequented with his friends from his other work. Logan could not afford such pleasures.<p>

At last, he decided to hang a little in his livingroom, grabbing the phone to call his main contact in the PD, Matt Sung—again. The case of Guevara's murder was not in his hands, but he had promised to ask his partners about it. It was just his luck, then, that Matt was about to leave, only pausing to apologize for not having found anything yet.

Forgetting to place the phone back into its base, Logan went to his office. He kept looking for her, running her name in every database he could remember, crossing words and references that might give him her whereabouts. Replies to his sent emails were in his inbox; forensic offices, police departments in other counties, hospitals—no one had seen her. Heck, they didn't even claimed to have seen someone who looked in the slightest way like Maxine Guevara. Logan appreciated their efforts, even if for the first time, a strange frustration gripped him by his contacts' inefficiency. _His contacts. _Hah. The keys were still in the place they had landed next to the keyboard, and his fingers played absently with them as he was forced to remember the one who couldn't get the job well done, the one who had promised so much and accomplished so little, the one that had failed was him...

He grabbed the keys and suddenly turned around in his chair. He swung his arm, drawing a parabola as he threw them through the office and even the livingroom, where they hit the forgotten phone, while its battery was slowly discharging over the surface of the red couch. There was only one thing he had not tried, and that only because Seth had managed to convince him that, if Manticore was behind the murder of the doctor, it was possibly also behind Maxine's disappearance; therefore, trying to contact her was as dangerous as it had been working with her father in the first place. However, deprived of any other better idea, open to the endless, even horrible possibilities, Logan stood up, the undone tie still adorning his neck. His fingers trembled slightly as he dialed the number, for some reason easier to remember than the other hundreds, if not thousands, that were stored in Eyes Only database, and then he brought the device to his right ear to listen...

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><p><em>Yay, Logan's in da house! I'm bouncing off of happiness, even when it's my fault this is his first appearance...<em>


	5. V

_I couldn't bring myself to write Max and Logan talking over the phone. That's the reason it took so long. My apologies._

_That said, thank you so much for reading!_

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><p><strong>The Cale Agenda<strong>

**V**

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><p>By the time the man finally called her, she'd been staying in a shitty, sector three motel, re-reading her notes about Maxine. Despite she had a whole profile of the deceased woman–the similarities between them so uncanny she wondered how much of her behavior was genetic–452 felt a sudden need to know everything about her, even the smallest details.<p>

Much she'd learnt in those diaries 719 brought to the base a couple of days after her assignment with 494–from the boyfriends she'd had to her passion for motorcycles and the places she attended with her friends–that she'd grown fond of Maxine Guevara. 452 couldn't deny it, at least not to herself: even when Manticore gave a purpose to her life–which she happily followed–the young woman that had served as a model for her genetic make-up had lived an existence she somewhat longed for. Nonetheless, it was not hard to keep those thoughts to herself: the escape of her former unit had deepened the breach between Manticore and the outside, and it didn't help to know what Psy-Ops had done to her partner, 494, when he tried to change his own course.

When her short conversation with the man ended, however, it felt like a part of her own life had ended as well. With an armful of documents she entered the odorous bathroom, and reduced every paper to ashes. _So, this is how it begins_, she thought, carefully cleaning the remnants of her notes before taking a quick look at the mirror. The woman of the reflection wasn't 452 anymore. She was now Maxine Guevara.

"Nah," she decided ater a minute, then gabbed her gear and abandoned her location.

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><p>452's new role started with no glory nor fanfare, moving to another motel in sector eight as the man had suggested–though she could detect a hint of an order in the edges of his calm, soothing voice.<p>

But, as the days went by, it seemed that had been their last conversation, the soldier within her worried that someone had finished him first (though the Committee hadn't mentioned she'd assassinate the guy, she'd been in enough missions to recognize how it was going to end). 452 had used the alias she was told to, _Rachel Glaser_, and politely asked the clerk to send any visitor to her room–that, if _anyone _came looking for her. If anything, that first contact with their, still anonymous, only suspect had provided them evidence of two things. One, the suspect was a male, most likely to surrender under her well rehearsed charm, and two, he had never got to see Maxine Guevara before–let alone talk to her, for that matter.

It'd make things easier, however, if the man just called her back.

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><p>There was a small, cozy coffee shop three blocks away from the motel, and 452 found herself enjoying the little food and beverages it offered. She usually stopped early in the morning or late at night, barely a couple of minutes before it closed. In most of her visits, the only person in the local was the tall, freckle-covered brunette that owned the place, so 452 had gotten used to not taking turns or waiting. It was great, because she lacked patience.<p>

In the fifth day, she smiled to the woman as she slipped into the café. After casting a quick look into the menu and asking her choice for the night, 452 noted it was past their closing time. Minutes later the woman returned, placing her order in the counter. She grabbed the latte–a Peppermint Mocha one–and her bagel, then replaced them with a few, neatly folded bills.

452 dropped a generous tip along with her pay, so she didn't get why the woman stopped her before she left. "Listen, you probably wouldn't have found me here if weren't by these two guys that are outside. They've been acting a little off–pacing back and forth to the Yum Yum," 452 remembered that was the name of her motel, "checking out the customers. I... They're not from the neighborhood, but I can't just call the Police with that, you know?"

"Yeah," 452 snorted, as if knowing. "It's not like they'd do anything, for that matter. Do you want me to keep you company for a while?" she offered, remembering a male in his early forties always picked up the brunette after closing.

"No, it's not that," the attendant said, taking off her apron. "The whole other way. My husband should be here in any minute–if you want a ride, you can stay here and wait with me. It's not safe for you to walk alone, anyway."

She shook her head, the ghost of a smile in her lips. "It's aiight. I'm just gonna walk fast and scream loudly if these gentlemen get close to me. Besides, my place is not far away."

The woman smiled back, though 452 noted the concern in her eyes. "Well, then take care of yourself. I'll see you in the morning." That sounded much like a wish.

It wasn't like 452 couldn't handle a couple of, most likely, drunken men, but the thought that something off was going on around her and she hadn't noted it unnerved her. She took a sip of the latte as she walked down the street, guided by flickering lights. As she coughed at the flavor–too sweet for her liking–she noticed when both men emerged from the shadows, following her. Shortly after, she decided to hurry her steps, but it was too late already.

An arm swung right in front of her, colliding with hers as the man draw her closer to him. The cup fell and emptied its contents into the already wet ground as an offended, clearly pissed 452 elbowed her attacker, though not half as strong as she would usually do. Even if the guy was just a robber, she'd been ordered not to stand out. This was all about secrecy, and the only reason that could possibly make her use her enhanced strength was if her life was at risk.

Almost in synchrony with her thoughts, the attacker surrounded her with his arms, reducing her movements to a minimal rate. _That's it_, she thought, then tried to free herself, discovering with much surprise that the bastard was truly strong.

The other man, who'd quietly stayed behind during their struggle, stepped beside them and placed a bag over her head, the scent of chloroform emanating from it. Though the sweet-smelling liquid did sedate her, it was certainly not enough to knock an X5 down. However, given her current status as an ordinary, run-of-the-mill girl, her kicking and squirming faded until she came to a halt. "I'm sure the boss won't be happy about our M.O., Seth," the farthest voice commented. "He certainly wasn't when we lift Herrero's daughter like this."

She forced her body to go limp as the man holding her, _Seth_, carried her body for a couple of feet. "Yeah, well, he didn't ask for any special treatment, did he? Besides, he doesn't need to know about the chloroform," both men laughed at their secret, then sobered up, "and if I had known better, Peter, I'd dealt with Alina worse-she had it coming."

"You had a bad feeling about her all along," _Peter_ said, remembering. "What do you think about this one? She's a bad girl, too?"

The sound of a metallic, sliding door followed, indicating they were probably opening a vehicle. "I'm not saying she has her father's blood in her hands," her captor replied. Then he laid her down, mostly careful, with the exception of the thud in which her head was lowered. "But she's not a saint, either. I don't see why else she wasn't silenced when they got the chance."

When the realization hit her, she didn't know whether to be glad or angry: she was being abducted by the people who was supposed to _help her_.

One of them closed the door, leaving 452 alone in the back of the vehicle-it seemed like an old van. Indeed it was, she noted as the motor rumbled angrily when started. She waited for them to talk again, holding to their voices as a medium to overcome the chloroform, which was starting to kick in. However, they remained silent as they drove through the streets.

She decided to cling into that. Taking a mental note of their turns and stops, 452 found out they weren't even going away from their meeting point. They were just driving in circles, perhaps trying to confuse her in case she was awake–like she actually was.

Five long minutes later, they pulled over.

The door opened again, and the same arms that had held her close drag her out of the van. He threw her over his shoulder-and then 452 felt truly helpless. She really needed to get that stupid bag off her head if she wanted to do anything...

Her release came forty-seven steps ahead, when the man dropped her on a chair. The bag left shortly after that, and even with her enhanced senses, it took her long enough to adjust her sight, that she lost track of her captors. Soon enough it didn't matter, as she caught in her surroundings. The chloroform induced haze ended abruptly: three cameras captured different angles of her face (she figured there would be more), and she could see their takes in one of the monitors in front of her. So much for wanting to break free in Manticore style.

The other monitor, however, was the one that kept her attention. _No signal_ flashed in three different colors across the screen, and she could only speculate that, in any moment, someone–or something–would appear. 452 stared into it, her heart beating violently.

Nothing showed up.

Sighing, 452 leaned back in the chair. Of course the fact she wasn't hysterical would be considered suspicious, but she hoped the untidy look of her face was enough back-up of her supposed sadness. She had enough psychological education to know people reacted to distress in a handful of manners; maybe the person observing her would buy her _my-last-days-have-been-so-horrible-that-I-can't-cry-anymore_ crap.

Eventually, she grew desperate and, staring at the camera placed directly in front of her, she spoke, "where am I?"

Words stopped flashing at the monitor. 452 quickly straightened and directed her brown eyes to it. The distorted voice, oddly familiar, reached her first. "Are you all right, Maxine-is it okay if I call you that way?" Then the screen illuminated, a well-known set of eyes displayed on it, framed by the usual red and blue bars.

Her soldier self smirked, and she fought to keep the gesture off her face. This mission had just turned itself into a quite interesting one.

* * *

><p><em>Yep, I'm leaving right now.<em>

_A/N 2: I'm not sure if I said this before. In the story, I'll be referring to our dear Max as _452_. In my A/N's she's still Max. However, as many other characters doesn't know she is not really _Max–_rather,_ Maxine–_well, they will call her that way, but I want to make clear that's not her name. She doesn't have one, just as the other transgenics (with the exception of the escapees)._

_A/N 3: By the other hand, I'm very sure I won't say again I will update soon. It seems like, in my dictionary, _soon_ actually means _after a very, very long time. _What I can guarantee is that I'll keep working on this, so you just have to be a little patient to read further results. I found a really fantastic job in this catering service that not only pays great, but gives me a real idea of what I'm getting into by studying Gastronomy (and I only wanted to learn how to cook!), and though I don't have to work everyday, it's exhausting u.u' But this won't die, that much I can swear!_


	6. VI

_Now, before you start with this, I want to make a point clear. I will make references to many episodes from the show, but I'm not exactly following its timeline. For example–and I'm giving you a little spoiler for an upcoming instalment–Alina Herrero has been mentioned, as well as Brin in this chapter, but Edgar Sonrisa's case will not happen yet. I don't want you to get confused over the arrangement of these events, since I'll feature them for, mostly, major purposes in the plotline._

* * *

><p><strong>The Cale Agenda<strong>

**VI**

* * *

><p>452 felt an urging need to inform her superiors what the mission was all about. The most widely accepted theory had been that Guevara's treason was related to the Chinese, recalling an incident months ago, when Major Jack Sanders had captured, then tried to sell, X5-734. Once Rafael Guevara was under the radar, it was not difficult to conclude that he was smuggling valuable information for them–perhaps, even in spite of his illness, planning to work with the PRC.<p>

What a surprise would be, to find out that Guevara was seeking not to sell Manticore. His plan was a simple exposé of all their deeds.

(It hadn't been actually mentioned during her brief conversation with the masked-man, but there was no other possibility since Eyes Only was involved in the whole thing).

And the impact such action may have had. It was undeniable that, despite being the basis of the still outstanding U.S. Army, Manticore violated countless international agreements. Cloning, living organisms' modification, biological weapons–pick one, Manticore had done almost everything. If such information was revealed, the Pentagon–the whole country, for that matter, would be involved in a huge scandal that'd ultimately destroy the already fragile structure of the nation. It was now in her hands to prevent such catastrophic series of events.

There was no kind of economic benefit for the doctor, only the guarantee of security for him and his daughter (that part of the plan had failed, much to Eyes Only's blissful ignorance), so it was easy to infer that the man's actions before his death had emerged from a need to vindicate before losing his battle against cancer. It was a shame, because the man had been a very valuable asset for the development of the project–though she had to admit that a part of her admired him for fighting for his ideals.

Unfortunately, sharing the news–and with that her excitement–would not be possible, or so 452 figured as she placed her feet back on the disastrous room she occupied in the Yum Yum Tree. Everything was exactly in the same place she'd left it, but 452 could feel the air stirring, consequence of the previous movement of someone in the room. Although she knew the intruder could not possibly find anything that would betray her, she wasn't certain cameras and microphones hadn't been installed in every corner. Nor she could search for them...

A soft knock on the door brought 452 back to her present. In a second she crossed the room and she looked through the peephole. Nothing to worry about, it was just the desk clerk, holding something in his hands-and confirming the fact someone had been there.

"Good night, Miss Glasser," the old man greeted as soon as the door swung open, "someone came looking for you while you were out. He left this for you."

452's attention strolled to his wrinkled hands, a sweet aroma escaped from the paper bag they held. She thanked as she grabbed the package, "didn't he leave a message?"

"Said something about stopping by in a couple days," he replied with an apologetic smile. She imagined he'd forgotten part of the actual dialogue.

The man made his way back to his office with a slow and tired pace. 452 pitied him–how horrible it would be for her to live with so many deficiencies in her body. Quickly dismissing the thought, she locked the door before sitting on the bed, opening the bag with something she labeled as eagerness.

Inside of it, there were a Peppermint Mocha latte and a bagel.

* * *

><p>Couple of hours later, after having pretended to catch some sleep–just in case she had been actually observed–she headed to the coffee shop. She wasn't oblivious of the look of relief in the attendant's face as she saw her walking in.<p>

"Good morning," the brunette said, cheerfully.

452 greeted back, with almost the same enthusiasm. "Can I have an espresso and two slices of apple pie? The latte was delicious, but I'm not used to that much sugar in my drinks."

The woman nodded, disappearing to the kitchen. When she returned, both hands occupied, she spoke. "My husband had a little setback last night, and he didn't show up until much later than planned. So it kinda scared the shit outta me when one of these guys I was talking you about knocked the door a while after you left."

"I imagine," 452 commented before sitting in the bar to eat, for a change.

Once again, the brunette nodded, but this time there was an amused smile playing in her lips. "And what a surprise when all he wanted was to order your meal again! I guess he scared you a little, too," she winked.

"Yeah," she conceded, then lied, "long time no seeing that bastard." Then, unsure of what else had happened, 452 leaned forward, whispering, "Whatever he told you about me, it's a lie." Though she pretended to be joking, that much was truth.

"Didn't say a lot. Mentioned he'd attempted to pull a prank on you. Not so funny, if you ask me," she opined.

"Well, at least he paid for my food," 452 replied, then the woman abandoned her to attend a couple of customers that had just arrived.

Once alone, 452 proceeded to analyze her situation, as she swallowed a piece of pie. She felt more at ease in public, convinced that the coffee shop was safer than her room at the motel–it was unlikely that Seth guy had planted cameras there. She took a sip of her drink, hot and strong, and pulled out a small notebook from her bag, the only remnant of her notes about Maxine. Now it would endorse her actions throughout the mission, because even as she trusted her photographic memory, there was nothing like leaving her observations embodied on paper, true evidence of the events going on. Besides, it wasn't as if anyone could decipher the true meaning of her words, well articulated and disguised under the mask of sad poetry.

_Forever eyes,_  
><em>somebody's angel...<em>

Eyes Only was involved. Which would be the right way to proceed, then? Would it be more convenient to convince him there was nothing to investigate? Or would it be necessary to actually cooperate with him, earning his trust? His devoted work on behalf of the country's recovery, starting with the West Coast, was undeniable, but his interest on Manticore was a bad omen. She couldn't remember a single case in which he'd set his attention and hadn't come out triumphant. Could it be possible for her to unmask the cyber terrorist?

She could only imagine the glory such achievement would bring her.

The faint sound of a cell phone broke her inspiration. Once disturbed, she closed the notebook and looked around; no one answered the call, and that was the moment when she remembered the second cell phone she was carrying. The device had been given to her at one point during the last night, and it was equipped with the most advanced technology to provide her of uninterrupted, untraceable communication (she even wondered if Manticore had something quite like it)–except, of course, for the person who had bestowed it to her. She looked at the device for a second, two, and then attended.

"Go for Max."

A low chuckle could be heard from the other side. _"Thought the boss had told you to use your alias."_

452 recognized the voice. It was the same man who had called her nearly five days ago. "Yeah, well, isn't this thing supposed to be safe?"

_"I'm sure the boss himself prepared your cell phone so it couldn't be interfered,"_ the man said calmly, _"but that doesn't prevent anyone around you from hearing what you're saying."_

Involuntarily, her brown eyes turned to the two strangers who drank coffee on the other side of the bar, chatting cheerfully with the brunette. "I'm way too paranoid. I think would have noticed something out of place."

_"Says otherwise the fact my colleagues got you into a vehicle and took you to some unknown location."_

"Two big men versus a small girl with her hands full. That is unfair," she paused for a moment, then remembered Seth's concern about their boss finding out she had been rendered unconscious, "not to mention their use of nervous system suppressants. You might want to mention that to your boss."

He gasped. _"Noted. Then, nothing's out of order?"_

"I thought I'd made that clear. Now, drop the chit-chat and tell me what I want to hear. Nobody has explained very well what this is all about."

There was silence in the other side of the line. 452 thought, for a moment, that she had been left alone. _"Even if you are in a safe place,"_ the man began, _"it's not the way to discuss this."_

"Come and meet me, then. I want to know what the fuck happened to my father."

_"It's not that easy."_

"Then make it that way," she ordered, patience slipping off her fingers. "I just know it's work related, and your boss wants to make sure nothing wrong happens to me, too. I feel like I'm blind about this, you know?" 452 sighed. "Me and my old man, we never had a perfect relationship, but he was my father" a small pause for dramatic purposes. "I just want to know the truth."

_"Your father died trying to do what was right, Maxine,"_ the man offered. That wasn't enough.

The mention of her supposed name, however, was an opportunity. It was the moment to create a connection, a bond. The change of subject might sound stupid, but 452 had to try it. "You can call me Max."

_"OK then, Max,"_ he curtly agreed.

"What's your name?" she asked, not too sweetly or he'd thought she was flirting–and that was really inappropriate.

A lifetime passed before he replied, _"Logan."_

If it was his name, she wouldn't know, but for now, that'd do the trick.

"Then help me, Logan," she muttered her plea, and waited.

* * *

><p><em>For now, that's it.<em>

_I truly suck at poetry, that's why you can appreciate the lack of effort and Logan's poem (at least the fragment in _Shorties in love_) is now Max's._


End file.
